her excitement was likely clouding reality. Within seconds, her temporary sense of indecision disappeared. Her voice became animated, her tone urgent. “I think this could be one of the missing da Vinci sketches rumored to have been stolen along with the Mona Lisa from the Louvre back in 1911. This could prove that those speculations were right all along!”
Lymburner appeared stunned, as if in total disbelief. “Deborah, I can’t begin to tell you how far off base you are on this!”
McCoy shook her head and tuned out the comment. She wanted to be fair and give her friends’ arguments consideration but was certain her speculations were valid. Begrudgingly, she sat down again and threw Lymburner a bone. “Well then, prove me wrong!” she demanded.
“This sketch has nothing to do with da Vinci!” he retorted, “I can assure you of that!”
Finding it increasingly difficult to remain calm McCoy held her ground, still challenging. “All I am trying to do is to establish its credibility. If the date checks out, we can take it one-step at a time. We have to start somewhere. We sure as hell can’t ignore it! This even smells like his work. The lines, the strokes, the magnificent proportions, they all point to da Vinci! We need to…”
Lymburner interrupted. His voice was emphatic, final. “Stop it! You have to believe me on this!”
Softening her demeanor, McCoy backed off, forcing herself to sit quietly at her desk. She was used to winning. She could wait him out but her silence lasted only seconds before offering an obligatory smile. “Then, please tell me where this came from,” she asked softly.
Flinging his hands up in mock surrender, Lymburner offered a compromise. “Alright, but the artist’s name is not an option I have right now.”
McCoy shrugged. An explanation, she thought. At least they were making progress. “So let’s hear it.”
McCoy suddenly found the transition from her unanswered questions to that of being on the receiving end of an honest answer from her friend to be a clear winner. She knew truth was frequently more bizarre than fiction but what followed was off the charts. Lymburner threw her a bone by acknowledging that her analysis about the origins of the sketch was understandable but it was only a moral victory. She found herself listening to what seemed like an old Paul Harvey broadcast where Harvey always threw out a teaser at the beginning of his broadcast before telling the rest of the story. She quietly acknowledged Lymburner’s explanation but only on face value. Accepting that an autistic girl one day away from her fifth birthday had drawn the sketch was something she would never believe.
Chapter 1
June 6th, 1898
Crown Hill Cemetery, Indianapolis, Indiana
It was late afternoon when Josiah Lilly decided it was time to begin the two-mile walk home. His father’s funeral had been over for hours but he had remained behind. Being alone in front of the family mausoleum brought him a welcomed calm because private time had been non-existent since his father’s death. It was familiar territory. He and his father had rarely spent time alone and now he deeply regretted that it was too late to recapture lost opportunities. As he walked, putting his past and future into perspective became more difficult with each step. Twenty years earlier, his father borrowed a thousand dollars and used his training as a pharmacist to open a small drug manufacturing company. That same company now claimed over 2000 prescription formulas and generated annual sales that dwarfed their largest competitor. For Josiah, the fact that the company’s successes had made the family very wealthy was nothing more than a perk, a simple byproduct of his father’s many successes.
A former Civil War officer, his father was affectionately known as Colonel to most, including close friends and family. The Colonel preferred it that way, but Josiah was keenly aware his father’s penchant for secrecy did not stop with his given name. The Colonel had many other secrets, including countless unwritten business agreements arranged behind closed doors with nothing more than a handshake. The Colonel had left him little to work with. Worse yet, he feared he would never know whom to trust. At the age of thirty-seven, he would honor his father, do as the Colonel had asked and carry the torch through to the next family generation. No matter the load, he would lead. For others, it seemed a normal and easy transition, but Josiah knew differently. The meeting he and his father always planned to have never happened. Now, it was too late. He was about to cross an ocean of uncertainty without a map.
When Josiah eventually arrived home, he paused a moment on the porch landing and turned around just in time to see the final rays of the sun settling below the horizon. Tomorrow would be a new day, a new beginning. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked inside. There was trouble ahead. He could feel it.
Chapter 2
Thursday, May 19, 1927
Long Island, New York
It was 7:52 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Still immersed in the giddy whirl of the 1920’s, the nation’s stock market remained strong but for Charles Lindbergh the status of the stock market meant nothing. He knew the United States was on the brink of an aviation revolution and he was determined to be part of it.
Paying no mind to the fact that six people died in three previous attempts to be the first to fly non-stop across the Atlantic, Lindbergh also ignored to the media’s claim that what he was about to do was suicidal. He sat calmly in the cockpit of his Ryan monoplane preparing to take off. To allow for more fuel, he had lightened his plane’s weight by opting to have no parachute, radio, brakes, or forward window. Pessimistic prognosticators, convinced he was sure to fail, claimed he was attempting to fly an oversized gas tank with wings into history. Lindbergh disagreed. He trusted his nine-cylinder Wright Whirlwind radial engine, and he trusted himself. He turned his ride upwind. The only certainty was that he was just seconds away from takeoff. Where or when his journey would end was anybody’s guess.
Named the Spirit of St. Louis in honor of his hometown, Lindbergh’s plane bounced awkwardly down the runway of Long Island’s Roosevelt Field. Slowly accelerating, he could see the telephone lines precariously positioned just yards from the runway’s end. Hundreds of nervous onlookers watched as his plane took the full length of the field before finally becoming airborne. Barely missing the wired obstructions, Lindbergh disappeared into the fog. For the citizens of the world, time would stand still until Lindbergh reappeared. Thirty-three hours and 3500 miles later, a live radio broadcast announced that a commercial fishing boat radioed in that they had spotted Lindbergh’s plane above the southern tip of Ireland. Sighting was the easy part. Lindbergh still had to reach Paris and the experts knew that fuel remained a major problem. Those ready to embrace a new hero could only wait and hope. It was high drama.
The next day, as Lindbergh closed in on his destination, Jeremiah Trent walked briskly down a freezing and wind-blown sidewalk on Chicago’s north shore. An hour earlier, he too had been caught up in Lindbergh’s odyssey, gathering around a crowd listening to the radio in a coffee shop at Chicago’s Union Station. While he had marveled at Lindbergh’s effort, neither Lindbergh nor his own freezing nose could deter him from the business at hand. He angled his wiry six foot two inch frame a few degrees forward, maximizing his leverage against Lake Michigan’s chilling winds. He was focused, on a mission of his own, and had less than an hour to complete it. Minutes later, he turned the final corner. Like Lindbergh, his goal was in sight. His paced quickened.
John D. Rockefeller’s dream when he founded the University of Chicago in 1892 was to for the curriculum to eventually include a medical school. In the fall, Rockefeller’s vision would become reality when the maiden medical school classes would commence. Trent was minutes away from finding out if he would be included.
